


A Very Crappy Christmas

by Poetoaster



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Christmas Special, Eggnog, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gay, Gift Exchange, Mistletoe, POV Faith Lehane, Short & Sweet, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 15:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17143994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetoaster/pseuds/Poetoaster
Summary: Faith tries very hard to give Buffy the Christmas of her dreams, but Operation Santa Baby goes hopelessly awry, and Buffy's reaction is more Grinch than jolly. Can Faith get the girl in the end, or will she have a blue Christmas without her?FEATURING: The Spike/Faith brawl the world has been waiting for!





	A Very Crappy Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Never_Out_Of_Style](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Never_Out_Of_Style/gifts).



> Having a bit of a morose Christmas this year, and thought I'd cheer myself up/process it all with some Fuffy goodness. This will be three short chapters in total. I could have made it into a one-shot but wanted to publish the first act to keep me accountable all the way to the finish line.
> 
> This fic takes place post-Season 7, and for the purposes of its plot I do not take into account the BTVS comics. 
> 
> For best effect, re-watch Faith and Buffy's scene in Season 3, episode 10 "Amends" before reading, and listen to Joni Mitchell's "River" for best mood setting. Merry Christmas, all! Let's make the yuletide gay!

She’d been clutching two hastily wrapped presents in one hand, while the other hovered over the doorbell. The presents, lest you assume (and people always did assume with Faith), had been purchased at the corner liquor store. But the wrapping paper she’d stolen from a Rite-Aid down the street, because who the fuck actually buys that shit?

She hadn’t been able to decide which was worse on that unseasonably warm Christmas:  showing up with garbage gifts or rolling through empty-handed. She had pictured being laughed out of the house in either scenario, and decided she’d gauge whether or not she should bolt based entirely on the first thirty seconds after the door opened.

Faith thought about that Christmas often. Well, it was the only Christmas she’d had worth thinking about. How when the door had opened, when Buffy had smiled her tentative smile and said (and meant), “I’m glad you came,” Faith had wondered not for the first time if she were maybe just a little bit gay (but had mostly at the time blamed her flushing cheeks on the fire in the fireplace).

And then there’d been Joyce. Joyce, who’d offered her “nog,” who’d decorated the tree with her while badly humming carols, who had in one evening and without putting any obvious effort into it proved more of a parent figure than Faith had ever even thought of wanting.

Five years had come and gone. So had Joyce. And now Faith strung up lights in a new house and decorated a new tree in direct defiance of the truth that she’d already had the best Christmas she could hope for. But her hope persisted in spite of this, and it had everything to do with a certain slayer who was her opposite in nearly every way.

Even now, pausing from putting ornaments on the tree to run over to the stove to check on the cider, she had to suppress the obligatory twinge of jealousy; the irony that Faith, who had never had the picture perfect, black-and-white-movie Christmas magic, was now trying to recreate something that Buffy had been lucky enough to experience her entire life was not lost on her.

Faith knew it was more than just replicating Christmas past for Buffy, though. She was building something here, the two of them were, and it went beyond just the daily work of finding and recruiting all the girls who suddenly found themselves slayers. The late nights, when everyone else had gone to bed, talking early into the morning about anything and everything, till they more often than not fell asleep on the couch together, an excuse to touch without explanation or unraveling of all that had ever come between them.

Tired of late night stolen conversations (but not yet tired of waking up in deliciously compromising positions), Faith wanted to do something big enough to show Buffy how she felt while still giving herself ample space to shut it down. She would always need that, building a home for herself with one hand and the other holding a match in case she had to burn the whole damn thing down.

A rustle from upstairs stirred her from her meditative decorating reverie. “Is Operation Santa Baby underway?” Willow’s head peaked around the hall corner.

Faith spread her arms wide and looked at Willow in mock triumph, all signs of her prior musings wiped clean. “Operation Santa Baby is COMPLETE, red.”

Willow’s eyebrows raised in approval. “This place cleans up nice. She’ll love it.”

“Aw, it’s alright,” she shrugged, ducking Willow’s impish grin and trying in vain to suppress a blush. “I’m sure it’s nothing like what she’s used to, but I did what I could.”

“It even smells all Christmas-like in here! Cider?” Willow came down the staircase.

“Yeah, the whole nine yards. Help yourself. There’s eggnog in the fridge, too.”

“Maybe when I get back. Got a movie to catch. DAWN!” She called up the stairs as she put on her coat.

From down the upstairs hallway, a door opened. “I can come out now?”

“We got a winter wonderland down here, Dawn! It’s ready!” Aside to Willow, Faith mouthed “Movie?”

“Be down in a minute!”

“I’m Buffy’s best friend, number one. Number two, I’m super gay and you’re out-gaying me IN MY OWN HOUSE.”

Faith choked on her eggnog, which she’d been nervously sipping on ever since Willow had joined her in the living room and kept giving her that knowing look. Thank god she’d had enough forethought to load up the nog with brandy. “Well, technically, it’s not YOUR house, it’s Wolfram and Hart’s safe house we are freeloading in--”

“Secret snuggles?” Willow ignored Faith’s frothy nog stache and tedious exposition to resume her deadpan tirade. “Heartfelt conversations into the wee hours? The two of you presumed straight? Alright already. You pass with flying rainbow colors, welcome to the team, yadda yadda. Getting everyone out of the house for your big holiday confessional is the least I can do.” She patted Faith on the back, still coughing up her cup of cheer, “Tell Dawn I’ll be waiting outside.”

By the time Dawn rounded the corner to see the Christmas tree lit and decorated, the twinkle lights warmly brightening every dark corner, and to smell the mulled cider wafting from the kitchen, Faith had composed herself enough to enjoy the look on Dawn’s face.

“So whaddaya think? I do okay?”

Dawn squealed in delight and skipped down the stairs to throw her arms around Faith. “She’ll love it, Faith.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? I never said--”

“You don’t have to. Well, not to me anyway. Save the gushy stuff for later.” She winked and elbowed Faith, who rolled her eyes and groaned in response. “No really, thank you. This is…” Dawn took it all in again, and Faith didn’t think she was imagining the tears behind her eyes. “I know it’s not for me. But still, feels like we haven’t had Christmas since…”

“Since twelve months ago?” Unable to keep up with Dawn’s abrupt mood changes, Faith cracked a wry smile. “Christmastime really flies when you’re fighting off apocalypse after apocalypse, huh?”

Dawn wiped a stray tear away and hugged Faith again.

“So what movie are you guys seeing?”

“Willow wanted to watch Return of the King, but everyone else voted for Love Actually.”

Faith made a mental note that she owed Willow one large favor.

Now it was Dawn’s turn to grin. “While you’re out living your Christmas fairytale, the rest of us will have to settle for the next best thing:  Hollywood romance.”

“Woah, woah. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Buffy hasn’t seen all this yet, she might take one look and leave.”

“Yeah, right. I know you two aren’t staying up till all hours of the night discussing strategy.”

“Geez. Word gets around, huh?”

“We’re rootin for ya.”

“Dawn, if you don’t get out here in the next 60 seconds I’m buying us tickets to Return of the King instead.”

“Coming!” Dawn took one last look at the decor and sighed happily. “Have fun tonight, Faith.”

How could she not hope for the best when everyone seemed to finally be in her corner?

“I will, Dawn.”

She wouldn’t.

* * *

 

As a rule, Faith didn’t keep alcohol in the house. A cliche vice, she knew, and one she didn’t like to dwell on since it reminded her of her mother. But she’d bought the eggnog because it reminded her of another mother, and she’d hoped that the thought of Joyce might cancel out her shitty DNA.

She was five mugs in, and the level of buzzed that required her to play the 7th song of her Christmas mixtape on repeat-- Joni Mitchell’s “River.” Not having much experience with traditional holiday music fare, “River” had struck her when putting together the mixtape as the only one with lyrics that had felt honest. Forget decking the halls with boughs of holly, Faith would much rather wish for a river she could skate away on.

On her sixth mug of eggnog (mostly brandy, hold the nog), Faith’s mind wandered to when she’d first found out Joyce was gone. She’d been on the road with Willow on the way back to Sunnydale. _I think the only person who’ll be happy to see me is Joyce._ She’d attempted joking with Willow to ease the mostly silent, traffic-ridden ride, and seen her knuckles go white at the steering wheel. She’d had to process Joyce’s death in gridlock on the 101. It had been two years after the fact, and she hadn’t had a right to grieve it, and so she hadn't, not really. Hence these thoughts surfacing unwelcome in the mug.

She knew she should be thinking something warm and fuzzy, but the keys jangled in the doorway and it was too late.

“Hey, B. Uhh, welcome home.” A promising opener. Faith resisted the urge to smash her own mug over her head and sink into blissful oblivion. Why was she so nervous? “Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves for the night.” She recalled five years ago, her hand poised at the doorbell, coaxing herself to ring it only on the promise that if the first thirty seconds were off she would get the hell out of there. Why did this time already feel off? She was itching to drop the match, to let it all burn and walk away before she had a chance to see this play out.

Buffy’s lips, halfway curved into a smile to return Faith’s greeting, froze in place and her expression was rendered unreadable. Faith waited for more of a response; she knew Buffy was not exactly a fan of surprises.

She waited as long as the brandy would let her. “Hey, Merry Christmas, B. I know it’s been a while since you’ve had it done up right, and I wanted to- Buffy?”

It started like a tingle at the top of her head, the feeling that she had really fucked up. Everything was wrong, Buffy wasn’t smiling, and she wouldn’t meet Faith’s eyes, but Faith could see in hers there were tears.

Faith put a hand gently on her shoulder, much less of an intimate move than their nightly “oops, we accidentally fell asleep on the couch again” cuddles, and yet Buffy took a step back to break contact. And keep retreating. “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas” jingled on in the background as Buffy turned her back to the door, walked down the driveway and turned out of sight.

The wish for the river to skate away on had been for _her_ , not Buffy, but Buffy had always been good at taking things away from Faith. This moment she’d stolen, with all the anticipation and implicit vulnerability leading up to it, was the angel on top of the goddamn Christmas tree.

She grabbed the carton of nog from the fridge, took a swig, and hurriedly put on her shoes and grabbed her keys. Buffy wasn’t the only one who could make an exit.

She was headed to the one place her mother had always ended up on Christmas, and every other major holiday, and hell, every other damn day she saw fit to.

Faith was about to drink every other sad sap who ever thought they had a Christmas sob story under the damn table.


End file.
